


Prompts and Circumstance

by asexual-fandom-queen (writeordietrying)



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Teen Wolf (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2018-12-16 16:13:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 13,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11832339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writeordietrying/pseuds/asexual-fandom-queen
Summary: A collection of Tumblr prompt fills under 1k. See chapter notes for individual summaries and ratings. Work marked complete as each individual chapter is its own self-contained story, but drabbles will continue to be added as they are written.Prompts are currently closed.





	1. Killerwave, Caitlin and Cisco Talk

**Author's Note:**

> Caitlin confides in Cisco. 
> 
> **Rated:** General Audiences  
>  **Prompt from Anonymous:** "Killerwave, _I did a pregnancy test_ "

“I did a pregnancy test.”

The jarring sound of metal against metal fills the lab as Cisco fumbles his latest engineering project and drops it on the table. He stares up at Caitlin with wide eyes, looking all too much like a deer caught in headlights, and pulls the bright, cherry red sucker from his mouth.

“You did what now?” he asks.

Caitlin’s nose scrunches and she wrings her hands. “I did a pregnancy test,” she says again.

Cisco nods absently. “Okay,” he says. “Yeah. So that is what I heard the first time.”

They’re alone in the lab together, long after Barry’s gone home. The only thing that fills the silence is the quiet hum of machinery as Cisco stares Caitlin down and she keeps her gaze trained purposefully on the floor.

“I didn’t realize you were seeing anyone,” Cisco says finally.

Caitlin squirms. “I’m not,” she replies.

“Oh,” Cisco says.

He doesn’t know what else to add, but this time it’s Caitlin’s turn to break the silence. “It was a one-time thing,” she explains. “Totally impulsive and stupid. I don’t even know why I did it in the first place.”

“Do I know him?” Cisco wonders.

Caitlin grimaces. “I don’t think you really want the answer to that question.”

Cisco scoffs. “Oh, come on, Cait,” he presses. “It can’t be that bad. I mean who could you even-”

Suddenly, Cisco falters. “Was it Dante?” he asks, aiming for supportive but still coming out horrified. “Did you sleep with my brother?”

“What?” Caitlin yips. Her whole body is wracked with sudden, explosive laughter, and Cisco sighs in relief. “Why would you think that?”

“Well,” Cisco defends. “You’re acting like it’s the end of the world. If it’s not my jerk brother, who could it be? What, is he married?”

“No,” Caitlin says quickly, gnawing at her lower lip, eyebrows knotted tensely together. “It’s nothing like that.”

Cisco throws his arms up in defeat. “Then what?” he asks. “What could possibly be so bad?”

“It’s Mick.”

The sudden confession takes Cisco aback, and for a moment, all he can do is blink owlishly at her.

“Mick Rory?”

Caitlin scoffs derisively. “No, Mick Jagger,” she deadpans.

“Wha-” Cisco begins, absolutely flummoxed, then, “how?”

Caitlin glares. “Use your imagination.”  

“Whoa, hey, whoa,” Cisco sputters. “I don’t wanna think about that!”

“Then why would you ask?” Caitlin snaps.

Once more, quiet descends over the lab. Cisco watches as Caitlin fusses with the petri dish poised under her microscope, pointedly avoiding looking his way.

Eventually, the silence becomes too heavy, and Cisco sighs. “What are you gonna do?” he asks, voice soft and gentle.

Caitlin shrugs. “I don’t have to worry about it,” she replies. Cisco gives her a curious look, so she elaborates. “It was negative.”

For a moment, Cisco doesn’t know what to say. Finally, he asks, “if you’re not pregnant, then why are we even having this conversation?”

“I don’t know,” Caitlin says. “I guess, when I thought I was, I– I don’t know. I felt something. And when it turned out I wasn’t…”

Cisco frowns. “Were you disappointed?”

Softly, Caitlin sighs. “Not disappointed, exactly,” she says. “But maybe a bit wistful. Ronnie and I used to talk about having kids all the time. After he died, I didn’t want to think about it anymore. And then it just became this part of me that I forgot, or that I purposely made go away, I don’t know. Either way, when I thought I was pregnant, it felt a bit like having the old Caitlin back.

“I think I’m ready to move on,” Caitlin continues. “I mean, really ready.”

Cisco beams. “That’s great,” he says. “I’m happy for you, Caitlin.”

Warily, Caitlin chuckles. “Yeah,” she replies. “I don’t think you’re gonna be happy for me much longer.”  

Cisco frowns. “What?” he asks. “Why not?”

“Well, I’m kinda thinking I maybe wanna move on with Mick.”

“Oh, yeah, you’re right. Definitely not happy.”


	2. Spideypool, Grieving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wade comforts Peter after a hard loss. 
> 
> **Rating:** General Audienes  
>  **Prompt from[asteelygenius](https://asteelygenius.tumblr.com/):** "Spideypool, _It's okay to cry_ "

“You know, it’s okay to cry.” 

Peter’s grip falters on the ledge beneath his fingers at the sound of Wade’s voice. He blinks hard behind his mask, isn’t even sure how Wade knew he was crying in the first place without seeing his face. Doesn’t know how he didn’t know Wade was right behind him, or for how long. 

“I’m not crying,” Peter snaps. 

Wade scoffs. “The break in your voice says otherwise.” 

Peter is tense, shoulders drawn up to his ears, the pull of his muscles visible through the thin material of his suit. Wade’s feet shuffle noisily through the gravel scattered across the rooftop, and Peter doesn’t relax, even as Wade hops up on the ledge beside him. His eyes are trained on the cityscape, the air clouded with smoke, tinged murky red with fire and debris. 

Even without looking, Peter knows Wade’s watching him. 

“You did what you could,” Wade says softly after a moment, softer than Peter’s used to hearing from the merc with a mouth. 

“Still wasn’t enough,” Peter mumbles. 

Finally, Wade turns his head to look at him. “What are you talking about, baby boy?” he asks, voice laced thick with confusion. 

“I couldn’t save everyone.” 

Uneasy, Wade shifts beside him. “Were you as fast as you could be?” he asks. 

Peter frowns. “Yeah,” he says.

“As strong?” Wade continues. 

“Yes, Wade,” Peter snaps. Seconds later though, he deflates. 

Peter pulls his legs up under himself and buries his head in his knees, the press of his sharp patellas against his forehead grounding him somehow. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. 

It catches him off guard when Wade’s hand falls gently onto his shoulder. After a moment, Peter relaxes into it. Relaxes into everything. 

“Then you did everything you could,” Wade says. His voice is soft and gentle, and it sends a shiver up Peter’s spine he’s sure the other man can feel beneath the pads of his fingers. 

“I know you have this whole ‘ _ with great power’ _ thing going for you,” Wade continues. “And it’s sweet. It really is. But it’s also bullshit.” 

As soon as the words leave Wade’s mouth, Peter groans. “Wade,” he chastises. 

“I’m sorry, Petey,” Wade says, not sounding very sorry at all. “But it’s fact o’clock, and this just in, you don’t owe anyone anything. You’re only one man. Even if that man happens to be the amazing spider kind.” 

Peter scoffs and shakes his head. Reaching back, he takes his mask in his hand and pulls it from his face, settling it in his lap as he wipes the tears from his cheeks. 

This is a new development, sharing his name with Wade. His face. And while there’s still a part of him that thinks it’s a terrible idea, the way his stomach flip-flops when Wade looks into his eyes - really looks - makes that part sound awfully muffled. 

“I can’t just change my code, Wade,” Peter protests. 

Wade pouts. “Why?” he whines. “Your code makes you miserable.” 

“Yeah, well,” Peter chuckles. “My moral compass doesn’t really care about my misery. Believe me, I’ve checked.” 

Awkwardly, Peter shifts on the ledge. The uncomfortable feeling of pins and needles fills his right glute, and he angles his body closer to Wade’s to compensate. The proximity means Peter can feel Wade’s body heat, even through the suit, and it makes him shiver. 

“You know,” Peter says after a moment. His voice is pitched low and gravelly, and Wade fixes him with a curious look. “Sometimes, I wish I was more like you. ‘Cause I think you might be right. I do care too much.” 

A stray tear runs down Peter’s cheek, and immediately, Wade is backpedaling. “Hey, whoa, wait,” he says. “You don’t want to be like me, baby boy. Trust me, alright. You wanna be like you. The world needs more people like you.” 

Peter sniffles and wipes at his eyes. “Oh, yeah?” he challenges, bitter and sarcastic. 

And usually, Wade would be sarcastic right back, except this time he’s not. “Yeah,” he says instead. “So, it’s okay to cry. It’s okay to feel whatever it is you need to feel that makes you the kinda selfless, warm-hearted person you are. Because the world does need people like you. And I do, too.” 

Peter swallows hard around the lump in his throat, so hard he’s sure Wade can hear, even as he looks Peter so intently in the eyes and says, “or just one person, specifically.” 

Chasing Wade’s warmth, Peter presses along his side from shoulder to knee cap and buries his head in the curve of Wade’s neck. He heaves in a ragged breath and lets Wade wrap an arm around him. 

“Okay,” Peter agrees, a violent sob finally pushing past his defenses. It’s the first of many, and he curls deeper into Wade’s arms as the tears continue to fall. 

Perched at the top of the city, they sit vigil for seven perfect strangers. Peter mourns their loss like friends. 

“Yeah,” Wade says, thumb stroking along the small of Peter’s back. “It’s okay.” 

 


	3. Coldflash, Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barry tries and fails to sneak out on his one-night-stand. 
> 
> **Rating:** Teen  
>  **Prompt from[QLaLa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/QLaLa):** "Coldflash, _Are you sneaking out on me?_ "

“Are you sneaking out on me?” 

Barry glances guiltily up at his one-night-stand through a gap in the bedsheets tangled around his lanky, wayward limbs. The guy is somehow even more handsome than he was last night in the forgiving darkness of the club… and the taxi… and his bedroom. Lots and lots of  _ in his bedroom _ . 

One-Night-Stand shifts on his elbow, and Barry flushes as the motion draws his eyes to the other man’s groin, bared now that Barry’s gone and pulled all the blankets with him to the floor in his mortifying feat of clumsiness. 

“Obviously not very well,” Barry chuckles, high and strained, as he darts his eyes to much safer ground, a ball of fuzz on the duvet cover wrapped around his shin. 

The man stretches out again, more brazen this time, almost inviting (or so Barry tells himself to justify the way his eyes flicker back where they really shouldn’t be.) “You don’t have to run off, kid.”

“It’s Barry,” Barry huffs, picking himself out of the blankets to his waist but thinking twice before kicking his bottom half free, opting instead to root around the floor for his underwear with his modesty intact. 

The man chuckles, sharp and smooth like ice, sending shivers up Barry’s spine just the same. “I remember,” he says. Then, his head tilts sideways and his eyes narrow as he scrutinizes Barry, like he could pick him apart with a look. The shivers that wrack Barry’s frame this time around aren’t so pleasant. 

“But you don’t,” he realizes. 

Barry flushes bright red. Response enough, it seems. 

“Len,” One-Night-Stand supplies. 

Barry clears his throat. “Nice to meet you, Len,” he says on instinct, than winces when his brain catches up with his mouth. “I mean, not meet you.” 

“Certainly not after how… acquainted we got last night.” 

Finally, Barry finds his underwear wrapped around the foot of the bedframe, and he yanks them on as fast as he can while still keeping the blankets around his waist. 

“Where’s the fire?” Len asks. He’s still watching Barry with those sharp, calculating eyes, and it raises gooseflesh on his arms. 

“I have to get home,” Barry replies. He finds his T-shirt next, on the corner of the dresser. 

Len’s eyes narrow. “Barry, Barry, Barry,” he sighs. “You aren’t seeing someone, are you? Naughty boy.” 

And back to the pleasant chills. 

“No,” Barry snaps, hackles up at just how much the sound of Len’s voice makes him want to ignore the world and crawl back into his bed. “I live at home. Told my dad I wouldn’t be out all night.” 

Len rolls his eyes. “What, are you worried he’ll ground you?” he asks. When Barry doesn’t answer right away -- wrestling his pants free from where they’re caught under the closet door -- Len stiffens. “Unless you got a real expert on that fake ID.” 

“What?” Barry asks, brow furrowing as he tries to process Len’s question, jump into his jeans, and not puke all at the same time. “No,” he says. “That’s my real ID. I’m twenty-one. College is just expensive. So what if I want to live at home and save a little money?” 

Len’s still watching hi with those eye, and Barry gets his back up even more. “Why am I even justifying my life choices to someone who seemed genuinely concerned a minute ago they’d had sex with a teenager last night.”  

Len’s body language immediately closes up, and Barry knows he’s gone and put his foot in it. But what does it matter, anyway? It’s not like he’s ever going to see Len again. Shame as that is to say about someone who looks that good. 

“You’re the one going on about running home to Daddy,” Len snarks. He gets out of bed in a huff and roots around for his clothes, too. And yeah, Barry’s ticked off, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t steal a glimpse of Len’s ass every time he bends over. 

“You’d be just as concerned if you grew up in a house where an APB went out every time you missed curfew,” Barry says. 

Len freezes with his shirt halfway up his arms. “Your dad’s a cop?” 

Barry bristles, too. “Is that a problem?” he asks. 

Len unfreezes just as quick, scoffing and rolling his eyes, but it all seems a little too forced to Barry now that he’s seen the man falter. 

“Why is that a problem, Len?” Barry tries again. 

Len gets his shirt and his pants on faster than Barry would expect of someone nursing the kind of hangover he must have. Barry hardly has time to open his mouth to ask another question before Len has him pressed against the wall with his tongue down Barry’s throat. 

Despite himself, Barry whines into Len’s mouth, high and embarrassing. He ruts against Len’s thigh as Len gropes his ass and almost starts pulling at their clothes again, rational thought dimmed by the heady fog of arousal rolling up from his gut. 

Before he gets the chance, Len pulls back with one last nip at Barry’s lips as Barry keens in disappointment and tries to chase his mouth. 

“Because,” Len replies with a devilish smirk of which Barry only catches the tail end as his eyelids flutter open. Len leans in for one more hard, dirty kiss, then pulls away completely, grabbing his leather jacket off the door handle and backing out of the bedroom, leaving Barry flushed panting and stupid horny in his wake.  

“This isn’t my apartment.” 


	4. Coldflash, In the Same Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barry wakes up in his nemesis' bed. 
> 
> **Rating:** General Audiences  
>  **Prompt from Anonymous:** "Coldflash, _Why are you in my bed?_ "

Barry doesn’t slip into consciousness so much as consciousness hits him like a semi truck. His first inhale is a gasp and his fist exhale a pained, strangled groan. 

“You’re alive,” drawls a voice to Barry’s left. “Mick owes me money.” 

Barry’s vision is blurred, but there’s no mistaking the figure in bed beside him as anyone other than Leonard Snart. Barry watches with a deep furrow in his brow as Snart grabs a small piece of cord from the nightstand nearby and wedges it between the pages of his thick, well-worn paperback to mark his place. 

“Snart, why are you in my bed?” Barry asks. He means for it to come out harsher, more like a threat, but his voice is too hoarse to have the desired effect. Barry’s whole throat feels like it’s on fire, and he swallows thickly in an attempt to extinguish it. 

“Actually, Barry, you’re in mine,” Snart replies. He reaches up and removes his reading glasses, round, clear frames that Barry does not -- does not -- find adorable on the older man. 

Snart sets his glasses and his forgotten book on the nightstand and grabs a glass of water instead, passing it over to Barry as Barry slides into a sitting position. Tentatively, Barry takes the offered glass. The water is room temperature and soothes the ache without any of the sharp sting cold water would cause. 

“That’s not any less concerning,” Barry says once he’s greedily sucked down half the glass. His voice sounds more even for his trouble. 

Snart chuckles. The curve of his lips, one pulled higher the other in more of a smirk than a smile, sets a kaleidoscope of butterflies loose in Barry’s chest. “If you wanted to get into my bed so badly, Barry,” Snart drawls. “All you had to do was ask. That whole  _ passing out _ thing you did was a lot less fun.” 

A flush spreads across Barry’s cheeks and up into his hairline. He remembers now, going up against the Rogues after three days with no sleep, the world turning dark around the edges, his breath shallow and laboured, as his body gave up its fight to keep him awake. 

Barry flicks his gaze to Snart from the corners of his eyes, opens his mouth to get defensive and make excuses, but stops short when he notices the way Snart’s brow pinches ever so slightly against the canvas of his otherwise impassive face. 

“Were you worried about me?” Barry asks before he can think better of it. 

Snart tenses, draws his shoulders back and sits up higher, straighter. “I’m not racing to catch heat for killing The Flash, if that’s what you’re asking,” he says. 

Glancing over his shoulder, Barry notices a matching nightstand on his end of the bed and twists around to set down his glass. He turns to face Snart again and offers him a sheepish smile. 

“I was just tired,” Barry explains. As if on cue, a yawn forces his mouth open wide. He covers it with his hand, but it leaves him off balance, leaning into Snart’s space. 

“Sorry,” Barry murmurs once the yawn’s passed, but he doesn’t draw back. Snart watches him with careful, scrutinizing eyes, and Barry lets him, a thrill of  _ something  _ running up his spine. 

After what feels like an eternity, Snart finally moves. He raises one of his hands until it hovers just over Barry’s face, then, with his thumb, Snart traces the puffy bags under Barry’s right eye. 

“You should take better care of yourself, Scarlet,” Snart whispers, his fingers still brushing Barry’s skin, and the sound feels so much louder than it actually is. “Can’t have my nemesis collapsing on me when I can beat him fair and square.” 

Barry laughs, bright and bemused, and tilts his face into Snart’s hand. “I didn’t think the word fair was in your vocabulary.”

Snart shrugs. “It usually isn’t.” 

Barry chuckles again, then pulls away from Snart’s fingers in favor of laying down beside him. He burrows into the cocoon of pillows and blankets and oversized sweats that surround him as Snart watches with sharp, guarded eyes. 

Barry tugs pointedly at the sleeves of the sweater he’s wearing as he glances up at Snart, his eyelids already heavy with sleep. “Pretty sure I was wearing a supersuit when I passed out,” he mumbles. 

“Which was no doubt embedded with a tracker,” Snart replies, no remorse in his tone. “It’s in a warehouse on the other side of town, relatively unharmed. Assuming Mick didn’t get trigger happy with his Heat Gun.” 

Barry winces at the mental image of his suit up in flames. Cisco would throw a fit.

“Don’t worry,” Snart adds, catching the wrinkle in Barry’s nose. “I was the perfect gentleman. Plus, briefs under the tripolymer? Looks like Lisa owes me money, too.” 

“It’s comfy,” Barry says. Whether he’s talking about not going commando in the suit or the layer of fleece lining the inside of Snart’s sweater, he isn’t sure. Snart doesn’t seem sure either, if the uncertain gaze he sends Barry’s way is any indication. 

Barry’s brain is already half asleep, which is probably why he shuffles forward and press his face against Snart’s side, an arm looping around his waist for good measure, like it’s a good idea. Snart stiffens, but Barry doesn’t let up. 

“What are you doing?” Snart asks. 

Barry shrugs. “You’re the one who doesn’t wanna catch heat for killing the Flash,” he says. 

Snart relaxes, if only a little. “And you’ll die if Captain Cold doesn’t cuddle you?” he quips. 

Barry yawns again, pressing his face more firmly into the soft cushion of Snart’s stomach. “You said it, not me.” 

The last thing Barry registers before dropping off again is the way Snart’s arm curls around his shoulders, and the gentle feeling of fingers running through his hair. 


	5. Coldwestallen, Wake Up Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iris finds a better way to beat the morning blues than her alarm. 
> 
> **Rating:** Explicit  
>  **Prompt from[LegendsofSnark](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LegendsofSnark):** Coldwestallen, _"I thought you'd be gone by the time I woke up"_

“ _ Y’all haters corny with that Illuminati mess. _ ” 

Iris groans and rolls over in bed. Her mouth feels  like cotton and her fingers struggle to wrap around her phone as she tries twice to thumb off the alarm. Some mornings even Beyonce can’t fix. 

“Rude.” 

A pillow to the face accompanies Len’s complaint. His voice is thick and rough from lack of sleep. Iris turns over again and grabs the fluffy weapon in her hands, lowering it enough to see Len glaring up at her with the one bloodshot blue eye he doesn’t have mashed into the mattress. 

“I thought you’d be gone by the time I woke up,” he adds, little more than a murmured slurring of words, and sounding a bit put out. 

“I didn’t hear you get in last night,” Iris says, stroking her fingers through Len’s close cropped hair, the last traces of deep brown barely hanging on against a sea of grey. She then moves to trace her thumb in circles over his temple until the furrow in his brow softens, leaving behind a fine set of lines she both tries and fails to resist the impulse to kiss. 

“Flash drama,” Len replies by way of explanation. Iris glances over his shoulder to the far end of the bed where Barry’s sprawled out, mouth open wide, a line of drool trickling down his cheek. It should be disgusting but is adorable instead. 

“Sorry I woke you,” Iris says. 

Len snorts. “We can’t all sleep like speedsters.” 

Shuffling forward, Iris steals a quick kiss that’s meant to be a quick goodbye but stretches long and lazy in the comfortable intimacy of the moment. 

“How long until you have to leave?” Len asks when Iris finally pulls away. She checks her phone -- five after six. 

“About an hour,” she replies. It’s a little earlier than she usually gets up, but, “I didn’t shave last night.” 

A crooked smirk pulls at Len’s lips, and though his eyes are still narrowed and puffy from lack of sleep, he looks more awake than he did just seconds before. 

“Wear pants.”

The sheets rustle as Len rolls Iris onto her back. His hands find the waistband of her underwear at once and tug them down, the springs creaking like thunder in the predawn quiet as Iris raises her hips to help him along. 

Len’s every move betrays how bone-tired he is, so Iris isn’t entirely surprised when, instead of shucking off his own underwear, he sinks down between her thighs and buries his face in her folds. 

Iris’ hands clamp around Len’s head as he gets straight to business, hard and rushed as neither have the time to spare. Her heart races wildly in her chest and her breathing turns shallow and laboured under the skill of his mouth, his teeth, his fingers. 

Iris is right on the edge when her alarm goes off again. 

It nearly gives her a heart attack, but it wouldn’t be the first time she hit snooze by mistake. 

“Leave it,” Len groans as Iris’ fingers twitch against his skin, the compulsion of routine niggling at her to turn the alarm off. “You’re almost there. Just leave it.” 

Iris turns her head to look over at Barry, concerned, but he’s still sleeping as soundly as he was minutes before. And once Len’s fingers start curling  _ right there holy shit _ inside her, the noises that fall from her mouth are just as loud as  _ Formation _ playing from the speakers. 

“Fuck,” Iris keens as she comes, back bowing, bed rocking, body spasming outside her control. Len holds her by the hips and licks her until it hurts. She shoves him away with trembling hands, but he doesn’t move farther than her thighs, kissing and biting until her breathing is even and measured. 

Finally, Iris reaches over and shuts off her alarm -- properly this time -- and Len crawls back up to his place in the middle of their bed, which, short of when he’s lying between her thighs, is Iris’ favourite place for him to be. Barry is still asleep, snoring softly, and Iris giggles, dropping her head to Len’s shoulder to nibble and kiss. 

“Get Barry to return the favour later,” she whispers against Len’s skin. “I’m gonna be late for work.” 

Rolling out of bed, Iris grabs her underwear off the floor, legs spread just enough for Len to get an eyeful of his handiwork. She’s close enough that he’s able to reach out and pinch her ass, and she yips playfully as she dances away from his greedy fingers. 

“Work, Len,” she reminds him. 

Len sighs but drops his arm back to the mattress. “Too tired anyway,” he drawls, the exhaustion catching back up with him all at once. “Knock ‘em dead, Ace,” he mutters before turning over and manhandling Barry into something passable as a  _ little spoon  _ position, Len’s front curling possessively around Barry’s back, his face smooshing into the groove between Barry’s neck and his shoulder. 

Iris sighs as she watches Barry shuffle into Len’s warmth from the doorway to their bedroom, a gentle, contented smile spreading across her face. 

“Sleep well, boys.” 


	6. Westwave, Injured Iris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mick tends to Iris after a close call. 
> 
> **Rating:** General Audiences  
>  **Prompt from[Nixie_DeAngel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Nixie_DeAngel/works):** Westwave, " _Good morning, hope you don't mind me borrowing your shirt_ "

Mick barely hears her footsteps over the sound of potatoes sizzling in the cast-iron frypan on the stove. Her feet must he bare, the way they shuffle and drag across the linoleum like a faint, whispered _hiss_.  

“Good morning,” Iris says, tentative and unsure, from somewhere about ten paces back.

Mick sets his spatula down and turns, ready to offer a greeting of his own, but the words die on his lips.

Iris has one of Mick’s Henleys on and nothing else. It’s so oversized, one shoulder and the jut of her collarbones stick out, even with the neckline fully buttoned. The hem falls to the top of her thighs, strong and smooth, and the contrast of her dark skin against the pale grey of the fabric is like sin. A possessive fire curls in Mick’s stomach that he stomps down at once.

“Hope you don’t mind me borrowing your shirt,” Iris continues. “The blood won’t come out of my dress.”

Swallowing thickly, Mick turns back to the potatoes and flips them in the pan, then glances back at Iris once he’s feeling more composed. “Pretty sure there’s some stuff of Lisa’s laying around,” he grunts. “Find you somethin’ to go home in.”

Iris offers him a small, timid smile. “Thanks,” she says. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear -- nervous habit, if Mick has to guess -- shows off the broken skin and deep, purple bruises on the left side of her face. Mick tries to keep his expression neutral, but Iris catches the subtle way his lips tighten in a grimace.

“It’s fine,” she tries, shaking her head.

Mick isn’t convinced. “C’mere,” he says, gesturing Iris over with a nod. As she pads over, he turns off the gas and moves the potatoes to a cool burner. Iris looks to Mick expectantly once she’s at his side, and he crowds her forward until the small of her back hits the counter.

“Up,” Mick says. When Iris hesitates, Mick raises an eyebrow. Her hands fall the the counter’s edge, and she leverages herself up to sit.

Iris waits patiently, quietly, as Mick fishes the first aid kit from under the sink, then turns on the faucet, hard stream splashing noisily into the stainless steel basin. The water is hot enough to make Mick’s skin itch, and he still washes his hands twice over to be sure they’re clean.

“Turn,” he says when he’s satisfied, shaking his hands to dry rather than rub them on the grimy dishtowel on the oven door.

Iris angles her face right to give Mick a better look at her wounds. It gives her a clear line of sight to the living room where a throw pillow and a blanket sit, rumpled, on the sofa.

“Sorry I kicked you out of your bed last night,” she says.

Mick shrugs. “Worse places I’ve slept.” He takes Iris’ chin in his hand, firm yet gentle, to maneuver her head just right so the light catches the top of her cheekbone where the worst of the damage is. Her eye is swollen half shut, but after a thorough -- and painful -- check the night before, Mick’s comfortable saying the zygomatic isn’t broken. The skin covering it is a different story.

Iris’ lip is split, too, the result of a separate blow that scuffed up her chin in the process. Her nose remains untouched, though Mick imagines it was next on the list.

Mick pushes against the bruised skin near her lip and Iris sucks in a pained breath between her teeth. He doesn’t apologize, and she doesn’t posture.

“You got a headache?” He asks instead.

“It’s fine,” Iris replies.

Not a no.

“Been pistol whipped a time or two in my day, doll,” Mick says as he pushes a blob of ointment from a tube in the first aid kit onto his fingers, then begins smoothing it over the open abrasions on Iris’ skin. “You ain’t gotta sugar coat it.”

“Oh, well, in that case, I feel like I’m dying,” Iris jokes, a little too loud for the close confines they’re pressed in. It seems to startle her, and she flinches, but Mick stays unshaken as he goes back in for more ointment.

“Woulda died for real if I hadn’t found you when I did,” he reminds her.

Iris shivers. “Thanks for coming,” she whispers.

Mick shrugs again, noncommittal. She explained it to him last night, once the blood and the tears finally dried up. It wasn’t the first time she chased a lead headfirst into danger, but after her phone caught a bullet and panic drove Barry’s number from her mind, her saving grace was Mick’s number, scrawled on a motel napkin and forgotten in her jacket pocket for almost six weeks.

Since the first and only time Mick and Iris slept together.

“Mick,” Iris says, quiet and hoarse, like his name tries desperately to cling to her throat as she pushes it past her lips.

Mick doesn’t reply, keeps his eyes downcast, staring avoidantly at the potatoes going cold on the stove, until Iris’ small, gentle hand falls to his cheek and pulls him in to connect their mouths. It’s little more than a brush of lips, both mindful of the open split that’s still tender and sore, but it makes Mick’s toes curl nonetheless. He drops his hands to Iris’ thighs and slides them up and down, thumbs tracing idle patterns against the skin he remembers so vividly touching and suddenly gets to touch again.

Iris shivers and leans in close, burying her face in the curve of Mick’s neck and soaking up the heat from his body. “Sorry I didn’t call,” she whispers.

Mick drops a kiss to the top of her head and tries not to think too hard about what he almost lost.

“S’okay.”


	7. Coldflash, Past Olivarry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barry and Oliver have it out over new relationships and old feelings. 
> 
> **Rating:** General Audiences  
>  **Prompt from Anonymous:** Coldflash, Past Olivarry " _You never had that shine in your eyes when you were with me_ "

The hair on the back of Barry’s neck prickles. He doesn’t hear boots on the rough concrete, but he knows someone’s is there, can sense them like a rabbit under a fox’s hungry gaze.  

“What do you want, Ollie?” Barry asks, keeping his back to the door, exhaustion and ire colouring his tone. 

Oliver huffs a breath through his nose. In that one, fleeting burst of sound, Barry hears more sanctimony than his frayed nerves can take without reproach. 

“What?” Barry snaps like the clap of thunder, whirling around to face Oliver head on, all anger and resentment and lightning buzzing under his skin. 

“He’s not good for you.” 

Barry’s hackles rise. His gut clenches, molten heat cresting in his throat. “You don’t get to make that decision,” he grits through his teeth. 

“He’s a criminal and a liar,” Oliver continues, moving closer with every word. 

“I swear,” Barry says. “If you take one more step.”

But Oliver keeps walking. “He’s a murderer–”

“So are you!” 

Barry’s outburst stops Oliver in his tracks. He blinks, expression sombre and hurt, as much as he ever lets his vulnerabilities play across his features. Barry’s chest heaves, sucking in harsh, furious breaths as his balled fists tremble. 

“You never had that shine in your eyes when you were with me,” Oliver whispers. He takes another step forward, soft and slow, and Barry lets him this time. “Like he makes you cry.” 

Oliver reaches a hand out, moves it toward Barry’s face. He gets close enough for Barry to feel the heat radiating from his palm against the skin of his cheek before Barry remembers himself and steps away. 

“Len and I are having a fight,” Barry says. “You don’t get to drop in on my life and pass judgement on my entire relationship based on one day. I love him. Arguing with him hurts me. He doesn’t hurt me. Not like you did.” 

Oliver flinches at that. He takes a staggering step back, brows pinched, mouth open in a soft, surprised  _ o _ . 

“You think you didn’t make me cry?” Barry asks, incredulity pitching his voice high. “If we were so perfect, why would I have left you, Oliver? I cried all the time. I just never felt like you could see it. I was so worried that showing you how upset you made me would make you spiral. 

“Len,” Barry continues, gesturing emphatically with his index finger toward the door, in the general direction of where Len and the rest of the heroes are gathered, strategizing. “Len can handle me being upset. I can actually talk to him when he does something that bothers me without him getting defensive, or turning things around on me until I’m the one comforting him.” 

Oliver stands, stone still, jaw clenched and jowls straining. 

“I know you don’t do it on purpose,” Barry says, softer now, less of an accusation and more of an olive branch. “But that doesn’t mean I should have to live with it. And that doesn’t mean you get to pick apart my relationship when I’m finally really happy, for the first time in so long.” 

Barry sighs. He runs a hand over his mouth, then shakes his head. “I really hope you find that one day, too,” he offers. “You’re not a bad guy, Oliver. But you can’t have a positive relationship with someone if you don’t have one with yourself.” 

“And you really think a man as selfish and heartless as Captain Cold can love you better than I do?” Oliver asks, his voice thready and tight. 

Barry’s eyes, wet with tears for so long, finally spill over. “Yeah, Oliver, I do.”  


	8. Coldwestallen, Relationship Negotiations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barry and Iris talk over coffee after Barry and Len hook up. 
> 
> **Rating:** General Audiences  
>  **Prompt from[AGDoren](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AGDoren/pseuds/AGDoren):** Coldwestallen, " _Of course I'm freaking out you're my friend_ " or " _I'm guessing this was a one time thing_ "

The idle background chatter of friends and colleagues talking, baristas taking orders, espresso beans grinding, milk steaming, swallows Barry’s words as he hunches over his coffee mug and turns the most adorable shade of bright pink Iris has ever seen. 

“And then he, um, he left,” Barry stammers. He fidgets nervously with his mug, rubs his thumbs against the too-hot ceramic as he cradles it between his palms.

Iris chuckles despite herself, and Barry finally snaps his head up to meet her eyes. “Barry, you’re freaking out,” she says. 

“Of course I’m freaking out,” Barry exclaims, a high, sharp whisper. “You’re my friend and I–” he takes a surreptitious glance around, checking for eavesdroppers, especially with the precinct right around the corner. “I slept with your husband!” 

“With my permission,” Iris reminds him with a roll of her eyes. 

“And now we’re talking about it over coffee like it’s this totally normal thing,” Barry continues, like she hadn’t spoken at all. “I feel like my entire life has become one of those  _ this is the future liberals want _ memes.” 

Iris shrugs and takes a sip of her latte. More open-mindedness about sexuality and relationships wouldn’t be the worst thing. 

“You’re really okay with this?” Barry asks, quiet and unsure, after Iris sets her mug down. “I mean, it’s one thing to agree to something before it happens, but if, once it’s real, it’s too hard, I don’t want you to lie to me. I never want you to be hurt by something I did and then for me not to know about it.”

“Barry,” Iris says, reaching out across the table and placing her hand gently over his where it twitches with nerves. He looks up at her, skittish and unsure, and Iris sighs. “I am one hundred percent fine. Are you?” 

Barry nods, sharp and curt, lips pursed, brow furrowed. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I am. I just– I guess I just thought so much about how I would feel while it was happening that I didn’t think about what we’d do after. You know, how things would go back to being the same.”

Iris isn’t sure what Barry means, what exactly he’s struggling with, until he clears his throat and hesitantly says, “I’m guessing this was a one time thing.” 

There’s so much hope and anxiety and dread in that one simple statement, Iris’ heart thuds in her chest. “Did you not want it to be?” she asks, her voice quiet and breathy. 

Iris doesn’t move her hand, but Barry quickly pulls his from under her touch. “Iris, I would never try and steal Len from you,” he says, nearly pleads, for her to understand. “You have to know that. I couldn’t do that to you. I lo– I love you.”

Iris’ breath hitches in her throat. She and Barry have loved one another since their days in grade school. They tell each other all the time. But the way Barry stumbles over the words now, the pain in his eyes, speaks to the way this admission is different. 

Without thinking, Iris rises from her chair. The legs scrape noisily against the floor and Barry flinches, knows he’s been caught out and won’t meet her eyes as he waits for her to walk away. 

But Iris doesn’t. She rounds the table and slides into the booth at Barry’s side. He glances over at her and Iris doesn’t hesitate to cup her hand around his jaw and pull him in for a deep, toe-curling kiss. Barry’s hand falls to her waist and drags her in closer as years of repressed emotions pass between the press of their mouths. 

“Iris?” Barry pants her name like a question as they pull apart, like she holds all the secrets of the universe in her beautiful, brilliant mind. Iris runs her fingers through the front of Barry’s hair and holds his wide, uncertain eyes with a warm, steadfast stare. 

“It doesn’t have to be a one time thing,” Iris says. “I love you, Barry Allen.” 

Barry lets out a shuddered breath and kisses her again. They both have tears in their eyes as they separate, in the middle of Jitters on a Tuesday morning, their lives tilting on their axes as the rest of the world continues to spin on like nothighing’s changed. 

“You know that Len is always going to be a part of my life, too, right?” Iris checks, gentle but firm. Barry nods, but still, she adds, “I’m not leaving him for you. If you want this to work, it’s something we need to be in together.” 

“I would never ask you to,” Barry assures her. Then, he pauses, furrows his brow and bites his lip, a hint of guilt colouring his expression. “Is Len gonna be okay with this? I mean, we didn’t talk about–”

“We did,” Iris interrupts with a sheepish smile. Barry’s eyes sparkle, like it’s the best news he’s heard all day. 

“You already thought about this?” he asks, a hint of wonder in his voice. 

Iris chuckles. “Why do you think we offered to see if you and Len were compatible?” 

A brilliant smile takes over Barry’s face, lights up his eyes and crinkles his laugh lines. “Do you guys want to go to dinner with me on Friday?” he asks. 

“Why, Barry.” 

The new voice catches Barry off guard, and he jumps in his seat and pulls his hand by reflex from Iris’ waist, but Iris keeps her hand splayed against his chest. 

Len watches them, a to-go cup of steaming coffee held in one hand, with a raised eyebrow and the smile of a cat who’s just gotten the cream. A pleased shiver runs up Barry’s spine, and Iris feels it in the tips of her fingers down to her toes. 

“We thought you’d never ask.” 


	9. Coldflash, Weekend Custody Exchange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A separated Barry and Len discuss the future of Barry's current relationship and reminisce about the past. 
> 
> **Rating:** General Audiences  
>  **Prompt from Anonymous:** Coldflash, " _Remember when you promised we’d always be together? Because I remember when I thought you meant it_ "

“Papa!” 

Len catches the hyperactive bundle of brown hair and long, bony limbs as it flings itself with an overenthusiastic leap into his arms. Len groans as he bears the weight and hoists his daughter up to rest on his hip. 

“Whoa, hey, easy there, Nora,” Len says, the corners of his eyes pinched, almost imperceptibly, in genuine pain despite his teasing tone. “You gotta watch Pops’ back. We’re not all as young and limber as we used to be.” 

Len glances over at Barry and offers him a wry smile. Barry stands awkwardly, holding Nora’s overnight bag in one hand and barely meeting Len’s eyes. His smile is disingenuous, forced in place to keep their six-year-old’s carefree innocence in tact when something is obviously wrong. 

Sighing, Len lowers Nora gently to the ground, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a twenty. “Listen, Snowflake,” he says, passing over the cash. “Michael’s waiting in the car. Why don’t you get him to take you for some ice cream while I talk with Dad for a minute?” 

“Really,” Nora shrieks, nearly vibrating with excitement. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” 

She hugs Len around the waist, then takes off running for the grey sedan parked a few feet away. 

“One scoop,” Barry calls after her. “Or you’ll be sick.” 

“Okay, Daddy,” Nora calls back, but she doesn’t sound overly sincere. She yanks open the front passenger side door and all but drags Michael from the car, grabbing onto his arm and tugging before he’s even got his seatbelt off. 

They may not share any blood relation, but Len’s son is good with Nora, treats her like a sister, even if they only spent three years living together full time. Nora takes Micheal by the hand, and the fifteen-year-old allows himself to be lead without complaint, barely stopping to offer a cursory, “hey, Barry,” thrown over his shoulder. 

Nora chatters to Michael a mile a minute as they head toward the ice cream parlour at the far end of the park, about what kind of ice cream she wants to get, about her week at school, about the macaroni wreath her stepmom helped her make for show and tell. 

Barry watches her go with a wistful smile. Len can’t say he feels much differently. 

“She’s getting so big,” Len says. 

Barry scoffs. “You just saw her last week.” 

“Kids that age,” Len defends. “They grow like weeds.” 

“Michael’s getting big, too,” Barry offers. 

A bittersweet smile tugs at the corner of Len’s lips. “He’s been bugging me to sign him up for defensive driving classes.” 

Barry says nothing at that. He doesn’t make to get back in his car, either, just keeps his thousand yard stare on the spot where Nora and Michael have disappeared around a curve in the path.  

“Remember when you promised we’d always be together?” Barry asks, finally breaking the silence before Len has a chance to decide whether he wants to know what’s going on in Barry’s head or not. “Because I remember when I thought you meant it.” 

Len eyes Barry, notices the way his foot bounces, the way he spins his wedding band with the meat of his pinky. “Trouble in paradise?” 

Barry flinches, then goes shock still. “I think we’re getting a divorce,” he admits. 

“So you’re coming to me with your sob story?” Len asks. “What? You think you’ll leave your wife, and we’ll get back together, and everything will be just fine and dandy for the rest of our picturesque little lives?” 

Barry shrugs, noncommittal. 

Len levels him with the most derisive scoff he can muster. “You make an awful lot of beds, Barry,” he says. “Just once, maybe you ought to try lying in one.” 

Barry bristles. “What are you saying?” he asks. 

“I’m saying,” Len replies. “That you’re a runner. It’s what you do. But you made a commitment, and maybe, for once in your life, you should try seeing it through. Go home. To your wife. Tell her how you’re feeling. Hell, go to counselling if you have to. But don’t just give up the first time it starts looking like things might get hard.” 

“Do you think that would have helped?” Barry wonders. Something in his voice sounds regretful, resigned. “If we’d gone to therapy, I mean. Do you think we’d still be here?” 

“No sense in what-ifs, Barry,” Len tells him. “Besides, I wouldn’t have gone. I’m too closed off, remember? I don’t tell anyone how I really feel. Sure as hell not when it matters

“But you do,” Len insists. “That’s your whole brand. Oversensitive, oversharing. So talk to your wife. Or you’ll always end up right back here.” 

Barry nods. He says nothing, passing along Nora’s overnight bag and heading back to his car, quiet and pensive. 

When Barry gets the door open, a sudden burst of  _ something _ hits Len square in the chest, and he finds himself calling out. “Barry!”

Barry stops, gives Len a curious look. 

“For what it’s worth,” Len says, working around the uncomfortable lump in his throat. “I did mean it. I always did.”

Barry is still for a moment, eyes wide. Then, he nods, gets in his car, and drives away.  


	10. FitzMack, Spanking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fitz and Mack indulge in a new kink. 
> 
> **Rating:** Explicit  
>  **Prompt from[Kinktober](https://kinktober2017.tumblr.com/post/163962052261/kinktober-2017):** Sleepy Sex/Spanking

Fitz floats into consciousness like mist over mountaintops. He settles into a cocoon of soft, downy blankets and warm, muscular limbs and takes a moment to savour the peace of the moment before deigning to open his eyes.

Plush, wet lips brush against the pulse ebbing slowly under the skin of Fitz’s neck, stubble scratching and scraping in the most tantalizing way. Fitz sighs and angles his head to offer more room, melting into the gentle, decadent swell of morning arousal as it cascades over him and the lover in his bed.

“Mack, that tickles,” Fitz says, not so much a complaint as it is a breathy sigh, or perhaps a gentle warning.

Mack chuckles, the sound deep and rich like slow dripping honey, and brings one broad palm to the small of Fitz’s back.

“That why you look like a human puddle?” Mack teases, lips brushing the lobe of Fitz’s ear as they move.

Without warning, Mack’s hand lands hard and quick on the swell of Fitz’s ass, flesh against flesh under the protection of the covers. It’s meant in only in jest, but Fitz’s body surprises them both by drawing tight as a bowstring while a gasp, sharp and broken, rips from his throat.

Fitz feels Mack’s breath puff against his ear. “You into that?” he asks.

Fitz feels the blush spread up his neck and colour his cheeks a vivid crimson. “We both know what happened,” he mumbles. “You don’t have to make fun of me for it.”

Mack’s hand drifts to Fitz’s ass again, fingers kneading sensitive flesh and trailing maddeningly close the part of his cheeks.

“Trust me, Turbo,” Mack says. He dips one finger between the cleft of Fitz’s ass and Fitz shivers. “This isn’t me making fun of you.”

Fitz lets out a small, broken whine, hips rutting instinctively down against Mack’s thigh as the confession sends a jolt of electricity to his cock. A second later, Mack’s flat, open palm strikes Fitz’s ass again, and Fitz mewls and ruts even harder.

“That’s it, baby,” Mack rumbles. He spanks Fitz again, this time on the other check. “Fuck, that’s so good.”

Fitz plants wet, sloppy kisses against Mack’s chest as Mack peels the blankets back, giving him more room to come in for the next swing. He doesn’t stop until Fitz is desperate and pleading, cock flushed and leaking onto the sheets.

“Mack, please,” Fitz begs. He arches his back and Mack groans as he admires the bright red skin spread taut across generous curves.

“That get you all nice and ready for me, Turbo?” Mack asks.

Fitz nods vehemently, stretching his arms above his head to elongate the planes of his back. Mack trails his fingers up Fitz’s spine and massages the pressure point at the base of his skull until Fitz is a whimpering mess with one hand as the other makes for their bedside table to retrieve a bottle of lube.

It takes almost no work to finger Fitz open, loose and pliant as he is. Still, Mack takes his time. He pumps his fingers in and out, stretching and scissoring, as he rubs the hot, reddened flesh of Fitz’s ass with his free hand and keeps his motions steady until Fitz is begging for his cock.

Mack slides in steady and slow, his broad chest curling around Fitz’s back. They move together like starlight, bright and cosmic and impossibly grand. When they come, it’s within moments of each other, Fitz spilling first against the sheets, then Mack following three incredible, symphonic breaths after, emptying deep inside Fitz’s willing body.

Mack kisses the sweat from the back of Fitz’s neck as he pulls out, then flips them over to lie on their sides, big and little spoons like constellations.

“We’ve got a mission briefing at eight,” Fitz mumbles, already half asleep again as Mack traces firm patterns into the yielding flesh spread across his belly.

“Relax, Turbo,” Mack replies. “That means we’ve still got another fifteen minutes to laze around in bed, and I don’t know about you, but I plan on making use of every last one.”


	11. Allydia, Wanna Bet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Allison and Lydia flirt in bed. 
> 
> **Rating:** Mature  
>  **Prompt from[prouvairablehulk](http://archiveofourown.org/users/prouvairablehulk/pseuds/prouvairablehulk):** "Allydia, _wanna bet?_ "

“You can’t out-seduce a succubus,” Allison giggles, words spilling from her lips like the waves of fine, strawberry blonde hair splayed across her chest.

Lydia turns her head, warm and solid between Allison’s ribs, and looks up at her with warm, olive eyes and a perfect arched brow. “Wanna bet?”

Allison chuckles. She runs a hand over Lydia’s stomach, a slow, sweeping caress, fingers lingering under her navel and tracing circles. “And how, exactly, would you go about proving this?” she asks.

Lydia purses her lips. “It’s Beacon Hills,” she replies. “One shouldn’t be too hard to find.”

Allison shakes her head, ghost of a smile on her lips. “You shouldn’t go looking for trouble,” she warns.

Lydia turns over, angles her body so Allison’s hand settles on the swell of her naked hip. “Now, Ally,” Lydia teases. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were afraid you might lose.”

Allison trails her hand up Lydia’s side to run through her hair, brushing the messy tendrils back from the strong line of her jaw. “I’m just worried what it’ll do to this town to have _two_ devastatingly beautiful women running around is all.”

Lydia smirks, sexy and slow. “Then we must already be in trouble,” she says. She glides forward, lifting her head from Allison’s chest and pivoting her legs so they’re laying side to side, toes brushing the strong muscles of Allison’s calves.

“I suppose, if I’m really going to prove my hypothesis correct,” Lydia continues. “I’ll have to conduct a few experiments.”

She presses a wet, open-mouthed kiss against the corner of Allison’s jaw, and Allison shivers.

“Does that go for when we find this hypothetical succubus, too?”

Lydia grins. “As long as you don’t mind having a lab partner.”

The image jumps, unbidden, to Allison’s mind.

A third set of limbs tangled in bedsheets and limbs Heat on either side of her body, pressing, rubbing,  _panting._

“If it’s for science,” Allison agrees, breathy and hitched, as Lydia trails her mouth lower, down the column of Allison’s neck, across the jut of her clavicles. Lower, to the sensitive, hardening buds of her nipples.

“Of course,” Lydia muses, suddenly serious, and Allison nearly whines as the warmth of her mouth is replaced by the painful chill of saliva cooling against heated flesh. “If we did want to conduct an experiment with actual scientific merit, we’d have to create a set of controls, figure out how to take readings that aren’t purely anecdotal. Maybe if we had electrodes–.”

“Or we could just have sex,” Allison interjects, bordering on desperate as she throbs between her thighs.

On a dime, Lydia’s focus shift. Her brain doesn’t shut off. In all the years Allison’s known her, it never has. Instead, the full weight of Lydia’s beautiful, powerful, unstoppable mind falls on her, and Allison feels the electricity thunder under her skin even before two of Lydia’s fingers dip between her legs.

“So, I’m doing an adequate job seducing you?” Lydia asks.

Allion doesn’t respond, and Lydia retaliates by withdrawing her fingers from inside Allison’s slick, wet heat.

Allison whines and Lydia chuckles. “Ally?” she prompts.

“Yes,” Allison gasps, the fire between her thighs running up her body and settling at the base of her skull, turning her brain to cotton and fuzz.

“Yes, what?” Lydia asks. She teases her fingers against Allison’s lips, and Allison whines.

“Yes, you could out-seduce a succubus.”

Lydia grins. It’s so smug and self-satisfied, a stab of arousal rocks Allison to her core, and her hips thrust down against Lydia’s fingers of their own accord.

“Good,” Lydia says, thumb flicking against Allison’s clit, pulling a gasp from her lips. She leans in and traces her mouth against the shell of Allison’s ear, breath ghosting and hot. Straddling one of Allison’s thighs, Lydia rocks her hips, and Allison feels the slick against her skin, hears it as she moves.

“You know how wet it makes me when I’m right.”


	12. Irisco, Family Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iris and Cisco share a sweet moment after dinner with Cisco's family. 
> 
> **Rating:** General Audiences  
>  **Prompt from[airyalmost](http://airyalmost.tumblr.com/):** Irisco, _"I thought you were dead"_

Iris feels the chill of late fall deep in her bones. She shivers and burrows deeper in her sweater, the sound high heels clacking against well-worn cement ringing out in the quiet of the night. 

“So, thoughts?” Cisco prompts. His keys jangle as he fishes them nervously from his pocket. His car is still half a block away, behind a plethora of others parked along the curb. 

Iris chuckles. “I  _ thought _ you were dead,” she replies. 

Cisco chuckles, too, but it’s a bit more self-deprecating. “That’s only marginally funny,” he says.

The way his mouth twists, lips curled tight over his teeth to suppress a smile, makes Iris’ heart flutter. She bumps his arm coyly with her own, and the smile breaks free, blooming on his face like sunshine. 

“Admittedly,” Cisco says. “The first time I take my girlfriend home to meet my family probably shouldn’t also be when I them she's pregnant.” 

They're quiet again for a beat, the light attempt at humour not quite landing. 

“They seemed to like me, at least,” Iris offers. 

Cisco laughs. “They love you,” he says. “Your like Ramon catnip. It's me they're mad at. They think I was hiding you from them.” 

“Weren't you?” Iris asks. 

“No, no,” Cisco replies, holding up his hands in supplication. “I was hiding them from you. Totally different.” 

Iris chuckles. “I see,” she says. 

She shivers again as the night air pierces her bones. Cisco’s steps flater as he takes her in, the rippling way her muscles contract against the cold, trying in vain to keep her warm.

“Here” he says, wrestling his arms free from his blazer with an undignified sort of flailing Iris has grown to love so much about her beautiful, charming, goofball of a partner. 

“Take this.” 

Cisco’s teeth are chattering already, left in a short sleeved button-down in twenty eight degree weather, but Iris can’t possibly deny him his request. So, she takes the blazer that smells so much like cinnamon and musk and  _ home _ and wraps herself inside until her shivering subsides. 

“You’re gonna be a great father, you know that?” Iris says, stuck suddenly with such a wave of fondness as she watches Cisco, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched, shivering out of his skin without complaint, just to keep her and the baby warm. 

“Because I can handle a bit of cold?” Cisco quips. “Not sure that puts anyone on the top of the list for father of the year.” 

Iris shakes her head and lets out an exasperated huff. Leave it to Cisco to sell himself so short. “Because you’re giving,” she says. “And selfless, and protective, and kind.” 

They’re at the car now, and Iris backs Cisco against it, crowding him until the heat radiating from her body warms him almost as much as the slow, tender touch of her lips. 

“I’m really glad you parents didn’t actually kill you,” Iris says when they part, Cisco nursing the same starstruck look he always does when he gets Iris this close. “You’re much too good a man for me to do this without you.” 

Cisco smiles, warm and fond, and runs one hand through Iris’ hair as the other settles against the almost imperceptible swell of her stomach. “Then lucky for you,” he says. “You’ll never have to.

“Even though you absolutely could,” he adds a moment later, cutting through the tender intimacy of the moment in such an emphatic way it makes Iris giggle. “Because you’re a total badass, and there isn’t anything in this world you couldn’t do.” 

“Does someone pay you to go around talking me up like this?” Iris teases, stepping back and reaching for the car door handle. 

Cisco steps back with a shrug and rounds the hood to the driver’s side. “I’m just telling it like it is, Sweetness.” 

Iris is all breezy laughter as they settle into the car. The warm air that blows from the vents as Cisco starts the engine feels like heaven, and Iris sighs, absolutely content, as they pull away from the curb. 

“Hey,” Iris says, later, as they turn onto the highway on the way back to their apartment. Cisco turns and offers her a curious glance, a silent promise that he’s listening. “Do you know any of those family recipes?” 

Cisco furrows his brows. “Most of them, yeah,” he replies. “Why?” 

Iris shrugs. A small smile blooms at the corner of lips. “I think I just found my ultimate pregnancy craving food.” 


	13. Stydia, Offering Comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles comforts Lydia, still new to her banshee abilities.
> 
> **Rated:** General Audiences  
>  **Prompt from[barryalec](http://barryalec.tumblr.com/):** "Something Stydia"

“Holy – are you okay?”

Lydia looked up at Stiles through wet lashes. Stiles stood frozen, arms outstretched, five feet away from where she knelt on the forest floor. He gaped at her, every strawberry blonde hair out of place and blood dotting her pale face. Her blouse was torn and dirty, her legs scraped through torn leggings, and Stiles didn’t know what to worry about first.

“Stiles,” Lydia said weakly, voice trembling. It was enough to shake Stiles out of his trance and he moved to kneel beside her, carefully stepping over one of the many bodies littering the clearing. Stiles wrapped an arm around her and rubbed her shoulder, smoothing her hair back with his free hand.

“Stiles,” Lydia said again, gradually coming back to alertness. “How did I get here?” 

“Hey, it’s okay,” Stiles whispered. “It’s okay. Are you hurt?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. She moved to stand, and Stiles steadied her with a hand around her waist. He brushed a dead leaf from her skirt and pulled a twig from her hair.

“What happened here?” Lydia asked, horrified by the three mangled bodies visible at her feet, yet still scanning the forest floor for the other two she could sense.

“You called me, Lydia,” Stiles replied. “Don’t you remember?”

Lydia shook her head, vigorous and sharp, eyes glazing over in panic. “No,” she said, breath racing. 

“Lydia,” Stiles cut in, trying to stop her panic short. “Lydia, it’s okay. Calm down. Deep breaths.”

“It’s not okay, Stiles,” Lydia snapped, voice shrill and high, quickly unraveling. “I just came to out to the woods to find five brutalized corpses and now you’re saying I called you and I don’t even remember and it’s not o– ”

Lydia’s words cut short as Stiles lips closed over hers, kissing her firm and insistent with a hand weaving into her hair. The other hand cupped her jaw, thumb stroking in soothing swaths. When Stiles pulled back, Lydia blinked at him owlishly, stunned.

“You were about to hyperventilate,” Stiles explained when Lydia remained silent. “Kissing makes you hold your breath. A brave, strong, intelligent woman once taught me that.”

Lydia drew back and Stiles’ hand fell from her cheek. He cleared his throat awkwardly and turned to scan the treeline, running a hand through the hair at the back of his head.

“Well,” he said abruptly, taking a long step backward. “I guess I should call my dad. Report this.”

Stiles turned to walk toward his jeep, but stopped short as a hand wrapped around his wrist.

“Stiles, wait,” Lydia said. 

Stiles turned to face the her and was caught off guard by warms lips and a manicured hand grasping tightly at the nape of his neck.

“Thank you,” Lydia whispered, lips still hovering over his. “For coming when I called. For always being there for me. For waiting.”

Stiles wrapped his arms around her waist and smiled.

“You don't need to thank me for that, Lydia. Not ever."


	14. Coldflash, Valentines Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barry has a run-in with a baking disaster Valentine's Day morning. 
> 
> **Rating:** Teen Audiences and Up  
>  **Prompt from Anonymous:** Coldflash, " _something fluffy and domestic._ "

“You’re drowning it.”

Barry glances over at the familiar sound of Len’s judgemental drawl, dismissive and disinterested at first, but quick to snap his attention back from the enriched dough kneading in the stand mixer as his boyfriend’s atypical state of undress registers.

Len leans against the butt of the counter, sleep pants riding scandalously low, chest bare. Ghostly remnants of bedsheets well-loved trace intricate lines across the left side of his face. His eyes are swollen and slitted, skin flush, stubble speckling the cut of his jaw like silver starlight.

“Good morning,” Barry says, clearing his throat and blinking fast as his eyes snag on the protrusion of Len’s Adam’s apple along the column of his throat.   

The stand mixer groans, a malcontented whirring of gears overworked, and Len purses his lips, nostrils flaring. “What’s happening here, Barry?” he asks, tight and impatient, like a school-teacher giving lessons.

“Wha–” Barry starts, then jumps as milk sploshes from the side of the large, metal bowl, spreading unceremoniously across the counter.  He scrambles to turn the mixer off, and tries answering again. “I’m making cinnamon rolls.”

Pulling the top half of the mixer upright, Barry frowns at the gloppy mess that clings to the dough hook in place of the smooth, elastic ball that’s meant to have formed. “Except the dough’s not coming together.”

Len pushes off the side of the counter and stalks to Barry’s side. He casually lifts the measuring cup from its place among of spilled sugar granules and eggshells, all the while bracing himself effortlessly against the wall to Barry’s left.

“And you used two cups of milk to how much flour, exactly?” Len asks, raising an eyebrow. A single furtive glance at the measurer was enough to read the volume from the faint ring of residue caught around the circumference of the glass, of course.  

“That’s what it called for,” Barry defends. Len’s never truly asking when he asks like that.

Len tuts and drops the measuring cup on the counter with a sharp _thunk_ . “Now, Barry,” he says, neck rounding like an athlete at warmup. “When adding your liquid, did you at any point stop and think, ' _d_ _oes this make sense?'_ ”

Barry’s hackles instantly rise. “Why wouldn’t it make sense?” he snaps. “That’s the recipe.”

The noise Len makes is a cross between amused scoff and abject disgust. “Barry, you’re a scientist.”

“It’s five a.m. on a Wednesday,” Barry yelps, the creciendo of his voice correlating directly with the dawning realization of his mistake. “You try thinking rationally.”

Len raises an eyebrow. “Pretty sure I am,” he rebukes, cool as ice.

Barry turns back to his failed baking endeavour and frowns at it, mouth left adorably agape. Len reaches out and grabs him by the chin, thumb pulling at the centre of Barry’s lower lip until he can see teeth.

“I was trying to do something special,” Barry says, words distorted with Len’s thumb in the way.

Len huffs a laugh. “The bakery on Bute is open all hours,” he says. “I like their donuts.”

In a zap of lightning, Barry is gone and back, wind kicking up a duster of flour in his wake. He holds up a brown paper, and Len takes it, carefully extracting the offering held inside.

“They were a special,” Barry explains as Len examines the heart-shaped donut, lines of white and caramel glaze drug in chevron patterns, glossy, across the top of dense, pillowy dough. “Dulce de leche. You like that, right? Or I can go back and get something el–.”

Len cuts him off with a look. “Barry,” he says.

Barry’s answering smile is nervous and tight.

Len sighs. He sets the donut down on the end of the counter, licks the sticky remnants of melted glaze from his thumb with an appreciative hum. Barry shivers, pupils blowing wide, and leans unconsciously forward as Len reaches out to smooth the lines between his brows.

“You don’t need to work yourself up so much over little ole me,” Len says. Whispers.

Barry frowns again. Len sighs.

“But it’s–”

Len stops him with a thumb over his lips, then a hand curved possessively around his jaw, mouth pressed to mouth.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” Len says when then part, even as Barry sways forward, chasing after him. Len keeps their foreheads pressed flush, and he feels Barry sigh into him.

“You are worth the effort, you know,” Barry says.

Len tilts his head, considering. “Maybe the effort,” he concedes. “But not the anxiety. Never.”

They’re quiet then, just the two of them, pressed chest to chest, hands roaming, breath mingling.

“Hey, Barry,” Len says.

Barry hums.

“It’s officially stupid o’clock,” Len continues. “Even for an early bird like me. Come back to bed?”

Barry nods, but as he pulls himself reluctantly from the warmth of Len’s arms, he stops short. “You’re not gonna have your donut?” he asks.

Len smirks a wicked smirk and trails his fingers egregiously low against Barry’s stomach. “Can’t have dessert before eating something a little more substantial, now, can I?”

Barry eyes go wide as saucers. He flushes into his hairline, even as the muscles in his abdomen vibrate wildly in anticipation. “Yea–yeah,” he stammers. “That’s probably a good idea, actually. So. We should go. Do that.”

He grabs Len by the hand and tugs, leading them from the kitchen and nearly tripping over his own feet in the process.

The unsalvageable mess of milk-flour-yeast goes forgotten on the counter.


	15. McCall Polypack, Soulmate AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The McCall Pack is meant to be. The proof is right there on their skin. 
> 
> **Rating:** General Audiences  
>  **Prompt from[Chillin-Like-Villains](http://chillin-like-villains.tumblr.com/): ** "Teen Wolf Polypack, _Yuanfen (Chinese) a relationship by fate or destiny._ "

Allison Argent is never allowed to speak of the two inset rings, one thick, the other thin, that blacken the skin at centre of her sternum. Her wardrobe is carefully scrutinized, down to the bodysuits she wears in gymnastics and the swimwear she dons at the pool.

“What’s a Wolf Mark?” Allison asks, six years old, bright-eyed and fearlessly curious. Her father pales, a spark of  _something_  extinguishing in his eyes, while her mother snaps, vicious and rabid, for her to never speak those words again.

Like anything Allison hears adults say and is scolded for repeating – swear words and sex words and prejudicial words too thinly veiled – she holds them tight to her chest, dangles them on the tip of her tongue, and internalizes them without ever really understanding.

Not until she sees the same mark reflected back at her by a boy with sharp teeth and amber eyes that glow in the pale light of a waxing moon.

 

* * *

 

Stiles Stilinski has two bands, one thick, the other thin, curled around the bony circle of ankle like a cuff. His father regards them warily, a realist through and through, while his mother tells him old Polish fairy tales about magic and destiny and true love. He reveres the bands as a gift – until his mother dies – then reviles them like a curse.

“I have one, too, see?” says a little boy in the sandbox on Stiles’ first day of school. His eyes are warm and brown, and something in them feels familiar in a sharp kind of way just beneath Stiles’ ribs. “Maybe that means we’re supposed to be friends.”

He memorizes the shape of his mark on another boy’s arm with curious fingers that will one day do the same for another partner, then another, then another, then another. None will be be the same as the first, but all will feel like coming home.

 

* * *

 

Lydia Martin hides a bullseye birthmark – two rings; one thick, the other thin – at the base of her skull with long, strawberry curls her mother brushes like ritual every morning at her vanity.

She takes lessons of covering imperfections to heart, covers her intelligence and her agency and her worth under a carefully crafted mask of meek desirability, so the only thing anyone sees when they look at her head is hair.

Sharp, biting wire leaves bruises in purples and blues around the pale, dainty column of her neck, and she goes to school the next day with her hair in a crown of braids.

“I don’t need to hide that.”

Gentle hands trace the lines of her face. A kaleidoscope of thin-ringed irises look at her with unrestrained care and affection. For the first time in her life, Lydia can breathe.

 

* * *

 

Two stark brands, one thick, the other thin, wrap high around Malia Hale’s thigh and draw whispers and sidelong glares. They exists where three looping spirals belong be instead – a mark born by her cousins, and her father, and a towering woman with sharp cheeks and blood in her stare she knows only as  _Alpha_.

“Keep an eye on that one; she’s marked for another Pack.”

Smoke, like fog, obscures the memory of whispers, of family, and of things destined to be. Malia Tate goes to her pediatrician’s once every six months to measure the strange discolorations that ring her warm tan skin and doesn’t think of home being anywhere other than her family farmhouse.

Not until home is a den, and two circles of dark black fur ring the ash-grey haunch of a mangy coyote, scavenging its way through barren winters in isolation. Not until a deep, guttural growl pulls the girl from the beast, and she understands for the first time what  _Alpha_  really means.

 

* * *

 

Kira Yukimura is taught from an early age to love the two concentric rings, one thick, the other thin, splayed across her back, low and to the left, just over her hip. Her parents trace its patterns to lull her to sleep on nights when the buzzing under her skin leaves her agitated and restless.

“There are people in this world, Kira, who will tell you that certain kinds of love are not allowed,” her mother tells her, those nights and every night, until Kira is seventeen and feels stuck in a loop.

“I know,” she takes to replying, long and airy like a sigh. “Love wins. Racism is bad. I promise, Mom, my self-esteem is fine.”  

Her rings prickle, like high voltage travelling in closed circuits, when she enters the wolf’s den, a place foxes should never be. Her parents’ lessons, like a heartbeat, echo in her chest just when she needs them most: “ _You must love anyway. It is meant for you. You’ll see._ ”

 

* * *

 

Scott McCall is born with two bands, one thick, the other thin, fixed inky dark around his upper arm. His mother worries – she’s a nurse, it’s impossible not to – and badgers the hospital staff until an old man in a pristine white coat arrives to dismiss her concerns out of hand.  

“It’s just a birthmark.”

“But Doc, it’s black.”

A dismissive shrug. “The human body is peculiar, sometimes.”

Still, he takes a biopsy and sends it off for tests. Melissa doesn’t sleep until the results come back benign. The skin doesn’t scar, much as they were warned it would, and sleep, while it finds her again, is fitful at best until Melissa finally understands why. 

Until she sees the mark her son bears emblazoned on five other teenagers, curled together on her living room sofa, cross-referencing colleges programs and budgeting for rent, and she just  _knows_.

This is Scott’s mark. This was always meant to be. 


	16. Coldwestallen, Library of Alexandria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Searching for Barry amidst a labyrinth of books, Iris reflects.
> 
>  **Rated:** General Audiences  
>  **Prompt from ColdWestAllen Week: _Changing Channels_ Edition:** Historical AU

The sour tang of stale parchment wrinkles Iris’ nose as she winds through row upon row of scrolls and tomes, footfalls muffled as she walks, sandals to stone. Barry is somewhere in the neatly ordered chaos, buried to the root of his sharp, heron-point nose in the latest text to catch his eye. Even when he isn’t focused on his studies, Iris has never seen him without a book, without some piece of knowledge at the ready to devour like Apophis and the sun.

Iris’ stomach flutters when she finally finds him, hair tousled, yet still fine as the silk traders bring to Alexandria from the East. The urge strikes her, rather violently, as it always has since their meeting eight months ago, to run her fingers through it and tug lightly at the strands. She knows that he’ll sigh deep and slide his honeyed-green eyes shut, the way he does when he’s wholly satisfied and content.

It’s not that Iris has never seen men the likes of Barry’s before – the pallor of his skin, the lightness of his eyes; none of it is especially foreign. Many profitable trade routes run through the West, and Djenné, the city of her childhood, thrives most notably of all. She’s seen many of his ilk, and others still with features as unique but wonderfully dissimilar. It was her longing for know more of the foreigners, her curiosity of what lay beyond the borders of her land, that lead her to Egypt.

Her curiosity, and the merchant with stormy blue eyes who’d offered her a dromedary from his caravan and safe passage across the Sahara in exchange for salt, and gold, and ultimately, though not either of their initial intentions, an inevitability, it seemed, her affection.

“Barry,” Iris says softly, shuffling her feet to call his attention as delicately as she can.

Still, Barry leaps, like a skittish rabbit, in his seat, and brings a hand to his chest even as a blinding smile of good-natured humour and rosy abashment colours his face. “Iris,” he says, her name like a song on his lips. His Roman accent makes the pronunciation wrong, but she knows she butchers his just as well, and there’s something special about hearing one’s name as only a loved one can say it.

“I hope you aren’t so absorbed in your studies you can’t take a walk with me,” Iris says, squaring her shoulders to assert her position, to pose the words less as an offer and more as a demand.

Barry rises, his books instantly forgotten, and a smile blooms at the corner or Iris’ mouth.

“The gardens are nearly as lovely as you this time of day,” he replies, matter-of-fact, and Iris flushes, even as she reaches out a hand for Barry to hold.

They keep an idle pace as they cross the Musaeum campus, Barry talking animatedly about his most recent learnings, and Iris keeping track as best she can between Barry’s quick tongue and three language barriers between them.

When they finally arrive, Iris leads them to a towering patch of bushes, flowering in vivid corals and pinks. A man stands before them, turned to hide his face. His shoulders are broad, and yet still slender, long arms like spindly branches that end in thin fingers adorned with rings of gold and fine stone. His hair is cropped short, grey streaking coarse, dark strands like craggy salt flats. Even from behind, he’s handsome.

Iris has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from giving away the game. She wonders if Barry will need to be told, will need a reminder of the first day they spent together, when Barry, with all his gentle heart and wide-eyed optimism had taken them on a tour of the library, through the rows of writings, the cages of exotic wildlife, and finally the gardens, where he’d won Iris’ heart swift as the sprint of a gazelle with a rose, cut confidently yet presented with hesitance, from the thorny stem.

Barry, however, needs no prompting to recognize the figure at the bush.

“Leonard,” Barry greets, bright and exuberant, and Leonard does a quarter turn, throwing Barry and Iris a self-satisfied smirk over his shoulder. Barry’s eyes crinkle, and Iris knows she’s caught him in one of those moments of contentment. They both have.

“Barry,” Leonard offers back. His voice is dulcet and smooth.

How Iris has missed it.

“When did you arrive?” Barry asks. His hand slips from Iris’ as he hurries to Leonard side, but Iris doesn’t mind. She isn’t far behind.

“Last night,” Leonard replies. “You’ll forgive me for dragging my feet, but the trade routes aren’t kind to a traveller’s hygiene and I much rathered the thought of seeing you both at my best.”

“You went to Iris first,” Barry says, with a disaffected scoff. “Of course.”

“You spend so much of your time deep in Daedalus’ maw,” Leonard replies, gesturing to the library with his chin. “Consider Iris my ball of thread. She’s had months to learn her way around, after all, where I’ve been gone.”

“How was Persia?” Iris asks, excited to hear the heart-pounding tales of travel from Leonard and his assorted rogues that make up his caravan.   

Barry, ever the moralist between them, frowns. “Do the nobility still have their gold?”

“Now, Barry,” Leonard tuts. He raises a hand to trail up the column of Barry’s throat and tilts his chin to bare blue branching veins. Barry melts under Leonard’s touch, and Iris softens too, watching as the tallest among them turns pliant as clay and in their company.

Leonard smiles, soft and amused in a way that wrinkles the skin of his lips, and Iris and Barry both shiver at once.

“We all have our passions.”

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi on [tumblr!](www.asexual-fandom-queen.tumblr.com)


End file.
